Lover Unleashed (Black Dagger Brotherhood #9)(138)

Holy . . . Christ. What if Payne had worked her magic on him? While they’d been together? Without either of them being aware of it, what if she’d healed his body in terms of time . . . turning the clock back not just months, but a decade or more?

Manny grabbed the cross that hung from his neck.

When someone knocked on the door, he flushed the empty toilet and then ran some water to make it sound like he wasn’t doing something skeevy. As he stepped out in a daze, he nodded to the round woman who wanted to get in, and headed back to Goldberg.

Sitting down, he had to wipe his sweating palms on the knees of his jeans.

“I have a favor,” he said to his former colleague. “It’s something I wouldn’t ask of anyone else—”

“Name it. Anything. After all you’ve done for me—”

“I want you to give me a physical. And take some scans of me.”

Goldberg immediately nodded. “I wasn’t going to say it, but I think that’s a good idea. The headaches . . . the forgetfulness. You need to find out if there’s an . . . impairment.” The guy stopped there, as if he didn’t want to tee up an argument or get morbid. “Although God, I’m serious . . . I’ve never seen you look so good.”

Manny snagged his coffee and rose to his feet, his sense of buzzing urgency having nothing to do with caffeine. “Let’s go. If you have the time now?”

Goldberg was right with him. “For you, I’ll always have time.”





FORTY-EIGHT


Every once in a while, Qhuinn’s death came back to him. It happened in dreams. In rare moments when he was still and quiet. And sometimes just to f*ck his head for kicks and giggles.

He always tried to avoid the collage of sights and smells and sounds like the plague, but though he’d filed for a restraining order with his inner court, opposing counsel was being a little bitch and putting up objections . . . so the shit kept popping up.

As he lay in his bed now, the foggy stretch of mental landscape that was neither sleep nor waking was like an open line for that horrible night to phone in, and what do you know, it did some dialing, the memories ringing his bells and somehow forcing him to answer.

His own brother had been part of the honor guard who had come to beat him and the bunch of black-robed bastards had tracked him down at the side of the road as he’d walked away from his family’s mansion for the last time. He’d had the few things he’d owned on his back, and he’d had no idea where he was headed. His father had thrown him out and he’d been struck from the family tree, so . . . there you go. Rootless. Directionless.

All because of his mismatched eyes.

The honor guard was just supposed to have beaten him for his offense to the bloodline. They were not supposed to kill him. But shit had gotten out of hand, and in a surprising shift, his brother had tried to stop it.

Qhuinn really remembered that part. His brother’s voice telling the others to stop.

It had been too late, however, and Qhuinn had floated away not just from the pain but also from the earth itself . . . only to find himself in a sea of white fog that had parted to reveal a door. Without being told, he’d known it was the entrance to the Fade, and he’d also known that once he opened it he was donzo.

Which had seemed like a great idea at the time. Nothing to lose and all that . . .

And yet, he’d balked at the last moment. For a reason he couldn’t remember.

It was the strangest thing. . . . For all that night was etched in his brain, that was the one piece he couldn’t recall no matter how hard he tried.

But he remembered slamming back into his own body: As he’d regained consciousness, Blay had been doing CPR on him, and wasn’t that a lip lock worth living for—

The knock that sounded on his door woke him up fully and he jacked off the pillows, willing the lights on so he was sure he knew where he was.

Yup. His bedroom. Alone.

But not for much longer.

As his adjusting eyes slowly slid over to the door, he knew who was on the other side. He could catch the delicate scent drifting in, and he knew why Layla had come. Hell, maybe that was why he hadn’t been able to truly sleep—he’d expected to be woken up by her at any moment.

“Come in,” he said softly.

The Chosen slipped inside silently, and as she turned to him, she looked like hell. Worn-out. A wasteland.

“Sire . . .”

“You can call me Qhuinn, you know. Please do, I mean.”

“Thank you.” She bowed at the waist and seemed to struggle getting herself upright. “I was wondering if I may avail myself once again of your kind offer to . . . take your vein. Verily, I am . . . depleted and unable to render myself back to the Sanctuary.”

As he met her green stare, something percolated deep in his mind, some kind of . . . realization that took root and put out sprouts of I-almost-got-it, it’s-just-about-to-come.

Green eyes. Green as grapes and jade and spring buds.

“Why ever are you looking at me thus?” she said, drawing the lapels of her robe more closely together.

Green eyes . . . in a face that was . . .

The Chosen glanced back at the door. “Perhaps . . . I shall just go—”

“I’m sorry.” Shaking himself, he made sure the covers were at his waist and motioned her over. “Just woke up—don’t mind me.”